As I walked [two weeks ago] along South Figueroa Street in downtown Los Angeles, my mind was fractured by a million disparate thoughts, most of them weighty matters only in my head. I was in Southern California for the annual convention of the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People and had several appointments on that beautiful day. In typical fashion, I was late for my first appointment and was oblivious to all around me.
“Excuse me. Could I ask you something?”
I heard the woman’s voice, but I didn’t see her. This isn’t uncommon; I live and work in downtown Washington, D.C. I’m approached by panhandlers several times a day during my commute or as I rush from place to place on the crowded city streets. Their friendly greetings are often a ruse to slow my roll long enough to ask for spare change to buy … who knows what they do with the money they bum off the kindhearted. Rarely do I break stride.
“Not today,” I said over my shoulder in the direction of the woman’s voice. “I don’t have anything.”
“Excuse me! I’m not homeless. Do I look homeless to you?”
The voice sounded firm, insistent, and commanding, forcing me to look at the person who owned it. I turned to face a bespectacled, brown-skinned woman. She wore a military green T-shirt with white letters that identified her with Chicago’s Westside NAACP. Her pink and green purse was large and expensive looking, marking her as a member of the Alpha Kappa Alpha sorority. Clearly, if I’d paid attention, I’d have realized she wasn’t a homeless beggar.
“All I wanted was to ask if you’d stop long enough to take our picture?”
